12 août 2007

How do you tell someone you're sorry?

Sure you can buy them a diamond necklace, but I like to think there's more than money involved between you and me. right?
Plus it wasn't really my fault anyway - there's just no internet cafe anywhere in this town. City? I think we should redefine the concept of city/town. Surely in this day and age, internet cafes are the new cathedral, right? So if you can't find an internet cafe within 5 weeks, then it's a town, right?
I have to stop saying "right".
And I could bore you to high heaven and back with stories of me and my technomoronicness, but you want to believe that I'm the clever, brilliant, and generally super fantastic person you've always thought I was, right?
Damn.
Although, I have to say, that particular dream got shattered in a none-too-subtle fashion one day on the subway, when Earth Angel - should I pause for effect here? - got on and proceeded to tell us all about how he couldn't bear to look at guys because they are, and I quote, obsolete, and oh his eyes, his eyes... but if girls under 30 wanted to know eternal happiness, they should join him. Not over 30, mind, because by 30 it was too late, we were joining the obsolete ranks and oh his eyes his eyes again.
And all this time, it never once entered his mind that we might be going oh my eyes my eyes ourselves... Picture a middle-aged man with a dyed jet black crewcut-mullet, very likely a girdle underneath a tight black tee and long shorts. Trying to pick up nubile young things. Does it ever work?
So yeah,
now I'm a technomoron too old to ever know what true happiness is really like.
But there's a cocktail bar just a block down from where I live, so I guess there'll always be alcohol.
So that was my attempt at apologizing. And yes, people of Britain, I now use z instead of s - a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to adapt. But rest assured: I still live in a flat, use the lift, and smoke ciggies. All isn't lost. Yet.